


Edge of a Knife

by jupiterslifelessmoons



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Illnesses, Kepler Whump, M/M, Platonic Cuddling, Pre-Canon, Road Trips, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Snuggling, Unhealthy Relationships, Vomiting, Whump, extreme illness, not canon divergent, the wonder twins - Freeform, this is fluff gone wrong
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-02-27 04:13:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13240191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jupiterslifelessmoons/pseuds/jupiterslifelessmoons
Summary: The last thing Jacobi wants to do with his summer is spend a week of it trapped in a car with Kepler (and Maxwell, but she’s more tolerable. She is supposed to be his best friend after all). He hates the way he can’t look away from him, hates the way Kepler can suck him in with a raised eyebrow and a half smile, hates the way that one glance leaves his heart pounding and his hands shaking. It’s like he’s not even trying. He especially hates it when Kepler somehow contracts a very deadly, very inconvenient disease that might kill him before they ever reach California-one that might not be an accident.





	1. Prologue

“Sir…you can’t be serious.”

The man in the tailored suit smiles at him and folds his hands neatly on his polished oak desk.

“Warren,” he says softly, his eyes trained on a particularly uninteresting patch of ceiling, “Do you know what happens to people who make me repeat myself?”

“No, sir.” He manages to still the tremor in his voice to a respectful murmur, but it’s a near thing.

“And is that the kind of thing you’d like to find out?”

“No sir.”

“Good. You leave tomorrow.” Cutter’s smile splits into a grin like an overripe plum peeling open, lips tight against his teeth.

“T-tomorrow? I-”

The teeth seem to swallow up his vision. “Problem, Warren?”

He is so unbelievably, poisonously cheery. Just standing in the same room with him makes Kepler feel as though there’s syrup clinging to his skin, oozing under his uniform and making him intensely uncomfortable.

“No problem at all, sir. We’ll be ready then.”

“Good!”

Cutter actually stands up, makes a big deal of walking around his mammoth desk. What does he even need it for? Kepler wonders. There’s not a stitch of paperwork or office supplies anywhere to be found on it; only a sleek desktop running on technology that he thinks is probably unavailable to the rest of the world as of yet, and a mug of coffee.

His view of the coffee mug is cut off by Cutter’s shoulder, and he forces his eyes up to the other man’s face. It’s a painting of a man, he tells himself, because this is the only way to successfully look at Mr. Cutter without flinching. A hand vices his shoulder.

“I just know the three of you will do wonderfully. I’ll expect a detailed report on my desk the instant you get back. But do take your time getting there; these things are meant to last.”

Kepler doesn’t even have a chance to say “yes, sir” before he finds himself shut out in the hallway, the ghost of a hand still making his shoulder ache. He reaches up to scratch the spot as he steps into the elevator, pulling out his phone simultaneously. He wants to punch a wall.


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kepler, would you T U R N O F F T H E C O U N T R Y M U S I C already??

It starts the moment they pull out of Maxwell’s driveway. The incessant, insistent, clamoring hell that the rest of the world calls country music.

Jacobi groans and slouches so low in his seat that he can barely see the road. He pictures the dashboard rising up his line of sight as a wave of oil, ready to drown him and pull him into the merciful, peaceful, quiet black void of death.

Kepler takes his eyes off the road for a minute to grin down at his weapons expert-though he’s careful to do so while Jacobi is looking away.

“Mr. Jacobi…is it really all that bad?” he says, in a tone that does nothing to betray his expression.

“Yes…” Jacobi whines. “Country is, like, the audible embodiment of being slowly crushed to death by a thousand tractors driven by people wearing infinite layers of plaid flannel and camouflage while it rains cheap beer.”

“An accurate summation of the experience, Jacobi. Kepler, are you trying to kill us? We’re not even on the highway yet. At first I thought it was a practical joke, but practical jokes aren’t supposed to do you any permanent physical harm.”

“What…permanent physical harm is this delightful music causing you, Maxwell?”

“In another two minutes my ears will start hemorrhaging,” Maxwell deadpans. Kepler just chuckles.

“Please, sir. I’ll do anything.”

Kepler raises an eyebrow at him. “Anything, Mr. Jacobi?”

“Oh, no, not this,” says Maxwell, curling into a ball around her phone, which she was presumably programming to make coffee or blow up the white house. “Anything but this. I’ll take the country music over you two flirting.”

Jacobi colors significantly. “We’re not flirting, Lana.”

“Suuuure you aren’t.”

Kepler huffs, offended-though by him or Maxwell, Jacobi can’t tell. He decides not to ask.

“Tell you what, Maxwell. I’ll let you pick the music for the rest of the trip-hell, you can even make a playlist-and in return, I get to tell Mr. Jacobi whatever I want-without complaint from you.”

Jacobi glances back at his best friend for a moment, forgetting the torturous country music. Maxwell looks almost pained. Her nose is scrunched and she’s biting her lip, hard-she looks like a confused rabbit.

“Do we have a deal.” says Kepler. It’s definitely a statement; even in banter he retains his authority. Jacobi shivers.

“I-can I use Spotify Premium?”

The corner of Kepler’s mouth twitches. “Done.”

“Great.” Maxwell immediately pops a pair of earbuds in and continues scrolling through her phone.

“You had those this whole time and didn’t use them?” Jacobi asks, exasperated. Maxwell shrugs. “ ‘S more fun to make fun of Kepler’s terrible taste-”

“Hey!”

“-which will soon be corrected,” she finishes smoothly. “But you’re on your own now, at least until I build the most epic road trip playlist ever heard by humankind.” She winks. “You’re on your own with the Colonel for a while, unfortunately.”

The next chunk of time-Jacobi feels it like hours, but he knows it’s probably minutes-is kind of odd. He’s not used to not having anything to do, and Jacobi is not a patient man (at least not in the sense that most people mean when they say “patient”). Math, and working with his hands, those he’s good at. One step flows into another over and over, all with an end goal, and there’s no biding your time waiting for dough to rise or for-for mice to warm up to each other, as is the case with some of Maxwell’s hobbies. There’s no staring into the distance or trailing your hand in the windstream. There’s none of this…idleness.

In all honesty Jacobi will probably been fine if someone just gives him something to do-like tallying the number of Toyotas from before 2008 that they pass. Stakeouts are never really a problem for him either, as long as he has someone or something to keep an eye on. It’s-Jacobi swears quietly as he realizes-it’s not having anywhere to look.

Not having anywhere to look, that is, besides Colonel Warren James Kepler.

He’s still glowing in the light of his recent promotion, and even though Jacobi can tell he’s definitely not happy with this particular assignment, there’s something about the tension lining his shoulders and the clench of his jaw that makes him all the more attractive. The rigidity of his body is a framework, a skeletal building structure, and Jacobi is stuck through with support beams. He can’t move his gaze or they’ll collapse and fall away.

He wriggles his shoulders, trying to make the beams align just right, so he can look away without them falling.

He can’t.

Jacobi settles for staring at the gearshift, but his eyes are mostly on Kepler’s hand resting lazily beside it, fingers spread, tarnished college ring shoved over his middle finger. The support beams tilt.

“Jacobi. You alright?”

He nearly jumps-nearly betrays himself. “Fine, sir.”

It only takes him a second to realize his inconsistency. “Besides this hell music, I mean.”

Kepler raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything more. Maxwell taps at his shoulder. “Hey. Danny. What do you think, Kansas first or Toto?”

“Kansas or-Maxwell, what are you doing?”

She tips one shoulder in a half shrug and leans her head against it, and her hair sweeps over the back of her jacket, too broad in the shoulders as always. “Making a playlist, duh. I always felt that Kansas and Toto should be next to each other but I can never decide how.”

“Well-” he’s a little thrown that she want his opinion on this- “uh, which one-which one sounds good next to the other?”

Maxwell slides her tongue over teeth in concentration. “It’s not about that really, I just want the words to look nice.”

“But you’re going to be hearing the playlist.”

“Well, yeah. But it needs to be written out, doesn’t it?”

“I…I guess? Sure? Wait, why?”

Maxwell rolls her eyes. “It just does, Jacobi. The numbers have to be right and the artists have to look good together and the number of words in the title of each song have to vary right.”

Jacobi blinks. “What?”

“Can I make it any clearer?”

Kepler chuckles softly. Jacobi ignores him.

“Waaait…is this…is this some weird coder thing?”

Maxwell huffs a sigh in his face. Her breath smells like the tiny hospitality mints that haunt Kepler’s office-Jacobi knows because he and Lana are the only two people who ever take them. For anyone else, he suspects, it must feel like snatching a piece of treasure out from under a jealous dragon. At least, it must while Kepler is looking at you with that disarming smile, his (fake) military jacket just barely tight enough for the muscles in his arms to show, worn like armor, like a comfortable shell. He belongs in that uniform, but he’s important enough to add his own piece of it to fit his tastes, not even necessarily because he wants to but because walking past all the senior officers and watching them actively not mention it is a display of power, of-

“Jacobi. Are you listening at all?”

“Hmm?”

“I said it’s not some weird coder thing, how would you like it if I explained every one of your many idiosyncrasies by asking if it was ‘some weird bomber thing’.”

“Demolitions expert.” Jacobi muttered.

“Whatever! Just help me decide what to put first.”

Alana Maxwell is many things. Annoyingly organized, for one, Jacobi thinks as he swipes her playlist into random order, hoping she’ll like it better than the last one he tried.

She’s his sister, too, though, and sisters are supposed to be annoying. Something would be wrong if she didn’t try to tease the crap out of him every moment they were together. It’s one of the ways he knows she’s in a bad mood.

She….she kind of looks it now, come to think of it. It’s been quite a few miles since she’s come up with anything scathing to say about his song selection, instead answering with a bored “nope” and a sigh. He’s finding it easier to think, now that he has something to do besides look at his entirely too attractive commanding officer.

He catches her, looking up between songs, running her fingernails along the top of her thigh in a smooth, predictable motion, not quite intense enough to be itching, not quite light enough to be casual fidgeting. Her lips tighten when she notices him and she snatches her phone.

“Are you done yet? Also-why, why is Avril Lavigne next to Three Days Grace?”

“I…don’t know who either of those people are. Lana, you okay?”

“Fine.”

“I told you to pack shorts.”

“They were all in the wash,” she says, avoiding his eyes.

“Lana, really? All of them? It must be a hundred degrees out here. And you say I don’t know how to pack. What were you thinki-”

Her glare cuts him off as she mouths “shut up”. He gives her a look, but mouths “alright, fine”.

Jacobi turns back to face the road, uncomfortably aware that Kepler is staring at him and not a little concerned that he’s going to run them off the road. “Colonel, can we stop at a gas station? I have to go to the bathroom.”

“…Sure, Jacobi.”

He can hear a hint of curiosity in the usually flat drawl but doesn’t speak to it. Lana has her secrets. And if Kepler makes her drag them into the light of day Jacobi will punch him right in his perfect face.

They’re passing the airport now. Jacobi glares out his window at each plane, the searing hot sound of each takeoff nestling into his ears and making him restless. Why they couldn’t just fly to California he’d never know, and Kepler didn’t seem about to tell him.

Probably some stupid team building exercise.

They pull into the nearest 7-11 once the worst of the traffic is past them. Kepler immediately starts tapping his fingers against the wheel, which Jacobi takes to mean “if you won’t tell me what’s going on, I’ll just be very, very impatient.”  
He gets out of the car fast, grabs his backpack because he has a feeling he might need it, and taps a hand on the back of his seat-a small, but unmistakable, invite to Maxwell.

The inside of the gas station is dark and very faintly blue after the persistent sun outside. Alana’s footsteps are reluctant. Jacobi can hear the jarring scrape as the soles of her sneakers drag against the linoleum. He doesn’t say anything until they’re over by the slushies-the only other person in the building is a half asleep teen with about six eyebrow piercings but Lana needs space. More space than this, but it’s the best he can do.

He’s beginning to fill a cup with blue raspberry when he feels her forehead against his back, thudding into him in concert with a soft “ugh”.

“Hello,” he says casually.

“Jacobiiiii.”

“That’s my name.”

He reaches for a lid, hunts around with his eyes for the little scoop-y straws. Ah. There they are.

For a second he thinks she’s about to say something important, but instead- “You know I hate blue raspberry.”

“I know,” he says calmly. “This is for me. Next one’s cherry.”

Kepler’s Pina Colada is nearly full before she actually says anything with any weight.

“I don’t like this.”

“Don’t like what?”

“Don’t like being in a car, with other people, without-without having-”

“Without being in complete control? You are a bit of a control freak, Lana.”

She punches his shoulder, nearly causing him to spill Kepler’s slushie. “Shut up.”

“Hey! Watch it,” he says, but it’s more of a mumble than a demand. He sighs, slow through his nose so Lana doesn’t hear.

“Okay…so…right this instant, what would help?”

“That slushie, for one.” Alana says, scooping it up the counter and sticking the straw in her mouth, gazing at him with faux-Bambi eyes. “It is so hot.”

Jacobi frowns at her. “I still have to pay for that. And you should be wearing something more suited to Florida instead of your New-England-Winter apartment.”

“Fall,” she says around the straw.

“What?”

“New England fall. It’s not that cold.”

Jacobi rolls his eyes. “Why don’t you have any shorts? You’re gonna get heat stroke.”

“I do have shorts. For home.”

“Meaning?”

She won’t look at him. He suspects any further conversation designed to get information out of her will not go over well. He tosses his backpack on the floor between them and takes the cherry slushie from her, balancing it against his chest. “Go change, there’s shorts in my bag.”

Maxwell bites her lip. “I just don’t want Kepler-”

“Relax. He won’t.”

“Fine.”

She takes the bag, eyes downcast, and Jacobi heads over to the register to pay. By the time he’s done Alana is out of the bathroom. His shorts are a little too big for her but they look comfortable enough with her belt, and more importantly they’re long enough that you can’t see her scars. “Help me carry?” he says, and she takes her slushie and continues to drink like nothing’s happened.

“You have to actually help me with the playlist now, instead of just shuffling it around. Like I wouldn’t notice.”

“Fine, Lana, as long as you help me make Kepler stop for lunch.”

“Alright.”

Her tongue is bright red. He resists the urge to smile. His hands are going numb from the slushies, but he barely feels it. It’s a nice contrast to the clinging heat. They walk outside and he starts to open the shotgun door, and then-

“Comfortable, Doctor Maxwell?”

Screw it, Kepler can wait.

“Perfectly,” says Alana, unruffled, but Jacobi slams the shotgun door, holds the backseat door open, and nudges her into the middle seat with his shoulder anyway. He hates Kepler picking on her. He hates that he doesn’t think about anything beyond his own authority and how to get more of it. You know people, you control them. Jacobi’s familiar with the tactic, but damned if anyone is going to twist Lana’s insecurities into a weapon.

“Jacobi-” she protests, but he’s already strapping in.

“C’mon. We’re gonna finish that playlist, kay?”

She pinches her lips together, flings a loose strand of hair over her back. “I’m not a child, you know,” she half whispers, half mouths.

“I know,” he says out loud. Kepler sighs, loudly. Jacobi pretends he doesn’t hear. There’s a few tense moments of unsteady eye contact, and then Lana hands him her phone.

“Fine,” she says, “but this time I get to watch to make sure you’re not as much of an idiot as usual.”

“Works for me,” he says.

They pass the time for a few miles like this, Lana snuggled into Jacobi’s shoulder despite the heat, and ribbing him unmercifully every time he makes a “stupid” choice. Jacobi returns the jabs, but he’s just a bit too tired of Kepler to put his whole heart into them. Finally Maxwell taps Kepler’s shoulder a little too firmly and hands him her phone when his hand appears over the backseat, triumphant. “Done,” she says, and leans over to mess up Jacobi’s hair.

“Ow.”

Kepler turns around, raises an eyebrow. “This is….Maxwell, this playlist is forty hours long.”

“Roughly the time it takes to get from Florida to California, with an extra five hours thrown in for insurance and traffic.” Maxwell beams.

Kepler makes a disgusted face. “Why have I heard of none of these?”

“Because, as I’ve stated before, you have terrible taste.”

He runs a hand across his forehead, glancing between the road and Maxwell’s face in the rearview mirror. “…if you say so, Doctor. Now, is Mr. Jacobi going to come back up here or are the two of you going to spend the entire drive from here to California sniggering like a couple of two year olds?”

“Why?” asks Jacobi, momentarily emboldened. “Jealous, sir?”

“I-jealousy is not an emotion that I am capable of having, Mr. Jacobi, sir.”

Lana sniggers. Jacobi tries to force the sudden blush from his face.

“And why would that be…?” mutters Jacobi, but he’s fairly certain that his voice is too low for Kepler to hear.

“Sir, can we stop for lunch?” asks Lana brightly. “I’m starved.”

“…of course, Doctor Maxwell. Where…would you like to go.”

“Burger King,” says Maxwell at the same time that Jacobi says “Dairy Queen.”

“Dairy Queen?” Kepler asks, incredulous. “My God, Jacobi, who eats at Dairy Queen? We’re going to Burger King.”

Lana raises an eyebrow mischievously at Jacobi. “Looks like I’m the favorite today.”

“The colonel does not have favorites,” says Jacobi.

“Depends on the day.” says Kepler lightly.

“You do not have favorites!”

Kepler chuckles, but doesn’t add anything more. They pull into the Burger King parking lot and Jacobi practically bolts, relieved to be outside, finally, relieved to feel the heat on his face, even, instead of the artificial tundra of Kepler’s company car (he suspects that Maxwell has somehow reprogrammed the air conditioning).

Maxwell is right behind him, and for a moment the two of them simply bask in the pain-pleasure of stretching out limbs that have been asleep for hours. The joy of getting out of a car after having been in it for at least a half eternity is severely underrated, Jacobi thinks.

It only lasts a moment though. There’s only so much obnoxious yawning Jacobi can do before realizing that Kepler is still in the car.

“Sir?” he calls.

“Coming, Jacobi. Sending a text. You and Maxwell go ahead inside.”

Jacobi quirks an eyebrow at Maxwell, but she just shrugs. Then she grabs his hand and practically drags him inside. “Come on, loser, I’m hungry.”

“Fine, coming…brat…”

He half smiles, while she’s looking at the menu. Maybe this trip won’t be as bad as he thought it would be.

The support beams are still tilting, though. There’s always been something connecting him to Warren Kepler-always-

He’s just not sure if there’s ever been anything connecting Kepler to him.

“ ‘Lana?” he asks, distracted.

“Hmm.”

“Kepler’s still in the car.” He’s looking through the grimy back window at the car. From this angle all he can see is Kepler’s hair, falling over his eyes. That can’t be regulation. Every few seconds he twitches, subconsciously, presumably trying to get his hair out of his eyes. Jacobi wants to smooth it off his forehead, maybe pin it back, give him a haircut, for God’s sake…or, no, honestly he wouldn’t have a problem just holding it out of his eyes. For, like, an hour or two. He could do that.

“Jacobi!” hisses Maxwell. “Could you not be a lovesick idiot for two seconds, maybe?”

“Wh-” Jacobi whips around. She’s dragged him to the front counter-he doesn’t remember that-and a fairly annoyed server asks “And you, sir?” for what is clearly not the first time.

“Uh-I’ll have-” his eyes flit over the menu but don’t take anything in. “Um-”

“Oh for-” Maxwell shoves him aside, none too gently. “He’ll have a number three combo, small Dr. Pepper. Thanks.” She scans her card and grabs the receipt, shoving it, crumpled, into her pocket before Jacobi’s thoughts can rearrange themselves into a sentence.

The server smiles tightly. “Coming right up.” She hands Jacobi a cup and he follows Maxwell, dazed. There’s…something wrong with him.

They sit down in the booth beside the window, close enough to the car that Kepler would’ve easily seen them, had they waved, had he looked up. But neither of those things happen.

Maxwell slides Jacobi’s drink across the table and frowned at him. “So, talk.”

“What?”

She reaches across their table and grabs both of his wrists, tugs him down to the table surface, glares at him. “You. The colonel. Something’s gotta give.”

“I…” Jacob tries, subconsciously, to scrub the blush from his face, but Maxwell still has a tight hold on both his wrists.

“Jacobi. Either make a move or stop-stop with the, the lovesick puppy act.”

Jacobi blinks. “Wait, I thought you hated it when we-”

“I do! I-” She grunts in frustration. “Jacobi,” she growls. “You’re too indecisive.”

He grins at her. “Aww, you do ship us.”

“So you admit it? You like Kepler?” Maxwell says quickly, in a clumsy attempt to regain her lead.

“You can’t one up me here, you just openly admitted that, while thinking on the idea of me and the colonel in a romantic relationship, you get warm and fuzzies?? Hmm?”

Alana rolls her eyes and drawls in a poor imitation of Kepler, “My ace ass ain’t admitting nothing, Mr. Jacobi.”

Jacobi chuckles, caught off guard by how easy it is to laugh when he’s not thinking of Kepler. When it’s not constantly between them. When he’s not thinking of the support beams and how it’s his job to keep them up.

“Mr. Jacobi, would you mind scooting over?”

“Wh-uh, of course, sir.”

Kepler scoots into the booth next to him, slides Maxwell’s and Jacobi’s trays in front of them. Jacobi tries not to looks. It’s weird to see him doing ordinary thing and now he’s caught in the uncomfortableness of not looking too much, not avoiding looking at him, trying to act normal, and shit why is it so hard to act normal around Kepler-

Maxwell catches his eye across the table and winks. He glares at her but can’t come up with a good enough comeback that’s Kepler safe, so he just takes a bite of his burger to have something to do. Maxwell steals a fry off his tray, and he swats her hand away. “You haff ‘ur owf!” he mumble yells at her through a mouthful.

“They taste better stolen,” says Maxwell, deadpan. “Hey, Warren, where’s yours?”

This is a game of theirs, to see how often they can get away with calling Kepler by his first name without having anything thrown at them or being threatened with bodily harm. Maxwell is the undisputed winner.

Kepler shifts, and Jacobi tries not to feel the heat radiating off his body. As if he had any choice. His shoulders roll back, he straightens, looks at Maxwell. “I have fries,” he says, gesturing at a tiny paper bag Jacobi didn’t even notice initially. “You and Jacobi go ahead. I’ll eat for real later.”

Maxwell shrugs. “Okay, sir.”

She swipes another fry from Jacobi’s tray, but this time he’s ready for it. His hand shoots out, catches her wrist, and they engage in a silent arm wrestling game for the fry, trying to smother their giggles in front of the other patrons. Kepler rolls his eyes.

“You two are absolute toddlers,” he says, but there’s the faintest glimmer of fondness in the words.

Maxwell wins, sticks her tongue out at Jacobi. “Sucker,” she purrs.

“Yeah, yeah.” He snatches a fry off of her tray when her back is turned and then nearly chokes trying to stuff it in his mouth, making Kepler snort. He tries to muffle it but Maxwell whips around anyway. “What?” she asks, and Kepler’s snort turns into full on laughter. Jacobi tries to keep a straight face but it’s damn near impossible.

“What?” says Maxwell louder. Jacobi just shakes his head. “Nothing, ‘Lana. Tell you later.”

He notices Kepler’s face twist out of the corner of his eye, but it isn’t from laughter. He glances at him, trying to look like he’s not looking. Kepler bites the corner of his lip and then stuffs a couple of fries in his mouth.

“Colonel, you okay?” asks Jacobi, in what he hopes to be the most nonchalant voice imaginable. There’s a split second of some unidentifiable emotion, directed at him, maybe surprise? And then it’s gone so fast that he’s sure he imagined it.

“Fine, Jacobi. Why wouldn’t I be?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so y’all know, this fic will, in the future, involve Kepcobi. NON-IDEALIZED Kepcobi. It’s very important to me that they not be romanticized, since their in show relationship is so unhealthy. So future warning for unhealthy relationship.


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jacobi may be an idiot, but Kepler’s even more of an idiot. Plus: snuggling with Maxwell, nearly turning into the wrong exit, Cupcake Wars, and really bad ideas.

Jacobi hates sleeping in the car. He hates trying to position his head comfortably against the door, hates leaning it on the seatbelt and then being jolted awake at every stoplight as it slides out from under him, hates trying to use his arm as a pillow and getting pins and needles. He hates giving up and resting his head, more upright, against the window, and then feeling as though his teeth are being shaken out of his head when the car starts vibrating.

Lana’s asleep on his shoulder, blissfully unaware of his suffering. She curls into herself, lets out a soft sound like a purr and tightens her grip on his tee shirt. This makes it increasingly difficult to find another position to sleep in.

He tries resting his head on hers but the angle is awkward and he can tell that if he stays like this for twenty seconds he’s just going to get neck cramps. He can’t take it anymore.

“Colonel,” he whispers, trying not to wake up Maxwell. Silence. He blinks a little, trying to keep his eyes open, watches the lights of the traffic beside them.

“Kepler,” he hisses a little louder.

There’s a very deliberate pause, and then:

“What was that, Mr. Jacobi? I didn’t quite hear you.”

Jacobi swallows a frustrated sigh. “I’m trying not to wake up Maxwell.”

“Did you say something?”

Jacobi grits his teeth and speaks as loud as he thinks is reasonable without risking waking her. “Sir, I would greatly appreciate it if we could stop at a hotel for the night.”

There’s a longer pause. Jacobi’s sure Kepler heard him. He’s just making him wait. He suppresses the impulse to repeat himself.

Finally Kepler says, “I suppose we could do that.”

“Thank you, sir.”

There’s an even longer, more uncomfortable pause, and Jacobi realizes that now he’s revealed he’s awake, he’ll probably be expected to make conversation.

He doesn’t feel like conversation, though.

“Kepler, why are you like this today?”

“Like what, Mr. Jacobi?” Immediate. Pleasantly curious, but not overly so.

“Like-like-” Jacobi grunts in frustration. “You know, you’re such a. You’re such a child sometimes, Colonel.”

He’s not sure if he’s offended Kepler (maybe even hurt?) or just made the next week of his own life ten times more difficult. Either way, he wishes he had bit his tongue, kept quiet.

“In…what way…am I a child, Mr. Jacobi?”

He doesn’t want to speak again. He’s only going to dig himself deeper into a hole.

Perhaps Kepler can sense his reluctance, because he turns briefly from the road to look at him. “You’ve started this, Daniel. Don’t think you get to leave it unfinished.”

“Sir-” Jacobi starts, and then stops. “I only meant-”

“No, don’t ‘I only meant’ me. You have something to say? Say it. Spit. It. Out.”

Jacobi bites his lip a minute longer. Kepler’s still looking at him; Jacobi can see the red glare of the dashboard reflected in his eyes. He’s still struggling to find the first word, to start himself off…diplomatically. Then he yelps, jolts forward-“KEPLER-the exit!”

Kepler swears softly, swerves the car into the exit so hard that Jacobi slams against the window in a maneuver that Jacobi is nearly certain is illegal. Someone behind them honks.

Maxwell mumbles something that sounds like “unclosed brackets” and resnuggles against Jacobi’s chest.

“As I was saying,” Jacobi continues, trying to regain his breath, “you’re kind of a child, sir, because you do things like that. Because the dramatic effect of glaring into my eyes is more important than watching the road.”

He feels his face go hot, but he’s glad he said it. Kepler doesn’t take as long to respond this time.

“I…see your point.”

Silence for another few seconds. They’re in a small town, glittering with McDonald’s and gas stations and uncrowded stoplights. Jacobi spots the hotel a little ways off to the right, in the distance. They’re on a bit of a hill, and so everything lays itself out neatly in front of him.

It’s kind of beautiful.

“But…I have to ask,” says Kepler, and Jacobi feels himself tense again, “what happened, today, that you would classify as…childish behavior?”

Jacobi blurts out, “Do you have to stick your nose into everyone’s business?”

Kepler clears his throat. If anyone can clear their throat in confusion, that’s what Kepler was doing. He seems actually taken aback. “I’m…sorry?”

“Maxwell. Could you just. Maybe please. Leave her alone and not do the whole…fucking….you know, passive aggressive thing.” He’s pushing his luck, he’s pushing his luck, he’s pushing his luck so hard…

“Ah.”

They’re turning into the hotel parking lot. Maxwell had stirred at the mention of her name; Jacobi runs a hand through her hair in an effort to get her to go back to sleep. She’ll wake up in a second anyway, but he wants to finish this conversation without her.

“You know…Mr. Jacobi…”

“Yes, sir?”

He’s lost whatever courage he had. Now he’s just hoping Maxwell doesn’t wake up until he moves. Kepler pulls into a spot, throws an arm over the back of the passenger seat and turns so he can straighten out the car properly.

“I only want what’s best. For you and Alana.”

“I…understand, sir.”

“Be sure that you do.” There’s a slight emphasis on ‘sure’, not enough to mention, but enough to make Jacobi think. Kepler seems to want to leave things where they are. Jacobi’s still indignant on Maxwell’s behalf. He wants answers. He wants actual, real meaningful talk, he wants Kepler to stop being so….coy.

But he’s tired, and hungry, and his neck is beginning to cramp again and Alana’s not going to stay asleep much longer if they start arguing. He huffs a breath out, resigning himself. It can wait. Much as he’d rather it not.

Something big is about to happen. He can feel it. The air’s been thick with change since they left Canaveral.

“Maxwell, wake up,” he mutters.

“Five more minutes,” she mumbles into his shoulder.

“In a second. C’mon. We’re getting out of the car.”

“Hm- what?”

“Wake up,” he repeats, and glances up long enough to roll his eyes at Kepler. Kepler doesn’t say anything, but even in the dim light Jacobi can see his face break into a half smile. It’s a moment. Jacobi doesn’t know of what, but it’s certainly a moment.

“Okay, fine, getting up…” Maxwell runs a hand through her hair, blinks, realizes where she is. “Oh. You got him to stop?”

“I…decided to stop, Doctor Maxwell,” says Kepler, at the same time that Jacobi says, “Yeah, you proud of me, Lana?”

The hotel clerk looks bored and tired and thoroughly unimpressed with Kepler’s threats when he’s told that the only available rooms have either two or one beds. Jacobi’s examining the grungy corkboard of local businesses on the wall and not really paying attention. Maxwell starts to brush a strand of hair out of her face with her shoulder, decides it isn’t work it, and dumps the suitcases she’s holding on the ground with a dull thump. “Just get two rooms?” she asks sleepily.

“Can’t,” says Kepler, through clenched teeth. “Mr. Cutter has me on a budget.”

Maxwell raises an eyebrow. “Okay then. Just get the one with two beds, Colonel, honestly, we don’t care.”

“What do we not care about?” Jacobi asks.

“Nothing. We’re sharing a bed.”

“Oh. Okay.”

The clerk’s already handing Kepler a set of keys, taking Maxwell’s comment as confirmation. Kepler growls under his breath but takes the keys.

They’re halfway up the stairs when Jacobi says, “Wait, ALL of us?”

“No, stupid. Two beds. You and I are sharing.”

Kepler and Jacobi glance at each other almost involuntarily. It was the obvious choice, after all. But the glance made it awkward.

The room smells like cigarette smoke and stale food and the walls are painted a sickly, unnecessarily textured shade of green, but there are clean towels in the bathroom and mints on the pillows. A note with the wifi password is taped to the nightstand, next to the remote. Jacobi doubts they’ll get more than maybe twenty channels, but he can think of worse places to spend the night.

Like that hedge outside one of Goddard’s competitor’s office in the pouring rain. Kneeling in the cold mud for hours playing rock paper scissors with Maxwell, feeling the support beams shift across his shoulders, not looking at Kepler. The stupid support beams. Ugh. He still remembers the way it felt, walking away, rain plastering his hair to his forehead and the scent of explosions thick even beneath the rain, like lightning. He remembers the raw quiet power he felt the following morning when Kepler tossed a newspaper from the gas station they’d stopped at into his lap, mumbling “Page four,” as the car started. GAS LEAK CAUSES EXPLOSION AT LOCAL BUSINESS, the article reads.

He feels like a god. As long as he stays at Goddard he can do anything. Anything. Cutter has more power than the average human can even dream of, and because Cutter has power and likes Jacobi, Jacobi has gained more power than the average human can ever dream of.

He can do anything.

Jacobi had shifted his left shoulder like he always does as Kepler turned to back out, his right hand too close to Jacobi’s skin.

Almost anything.

Everything’s quiet now. Lana’s fallen asleep on top of the sheets, still in her street clothes. Kepler’s in the shower. Jacobi turns on the tv, scrolls the volume way down and searches for something to distract himself with. He settles on a late rerun of Cupcake Wars and decides to get changed quickly before Kepler comes back.

But Cupcake Wars has turned into Chopped and Jacobi’s already successfully maneuvered Maxwell under the duvet without waking her up before he realizes that Kepler has been in the shower for a borderline ridiculous amount of time.

With a mental shrug he turns the tv off. It’ll probably be easier to fall asleep without Kepler in the room anyway. Jacobi climbs carefully in next to Maxwell, fumbles for the lamp switch, and closes his eyes.

The hotel room is bigger than his bedroom. It’s also darker. He still has his eyes closed but he can feel it; feel the space around him swallowing him and Maxwell. He rolls over so he can rest his forehead between her shoulder blades. The sheets smell like sand and Maxwell’s generic drugstore shampoo, something citric and sweet.

There’s coughing coming from the bathroom then, muffled by the crook of an elbow or a towel or something. Harsh, strangled coughing, the kind that happens when you’ve been coughing for days and try to hold it back but can’t. It goes on for about a minute and then stops.

He’s intensely awake now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Niamh and Ellie for proofreading this chapter!


	4. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jacobi does some reflection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for mentions of smoking, mentions of self harm, and vomiting. We're really gonna dive into the plot after this one, kids. Last establishing chapter.

“Jacobi? Hand? Out of face?”

“Mmph.” He rolls over-towards Maxwell. His nose presses into her arm.

“Jacobi. Please. Wake up.”

He shoots straight up, eyes wide open, nearly knocking into Maxwell again. She yelps.

“Jacobi, are you-”

“Fine,” he says tersely, somewhat breathless. “I’m fine, Maxwell.”

Maxwell shrugs. “If you say so.”

There’s a couple of seconds of silence while Jacobi runs his hand through his hair a few times till it’s messy enough that he feels like himself. It’s already light out, pinkish gold tendrils of sunlight curling warm against the curtain in front of the window. “What time is it?” he asks Maxwell.

“Seven something. You want something to eat?”

“Hell yes. They do breakfast?”

“Yup.”

“Room service breakfast?”

“Yup.”

“Can we move here so I don’t have to suffer through your attempts at what only Satan would call cooking?”

“Shut up,” she says, grinning, and socks him in the shoulder. They order breakfast and flip through the mediocre channel selection, Alana tucked in firmly against his shoulder.

When a maid comes up with the plates it finally occurs to Jacobi that Kepler isn’t in the tangle of blankets on his bed. He frowns at the sheets, trying to will his commanding officer into the space. There’s a sour taste in his mouth every time thinks about why Kepler wouldn’t be in his bed.

He sets the plates of pancakes down on the nightstand.

“Oh, hell yes,” says Alana, arranging the strawberries on hers so they’re perfectly even, and smearing the whipped cream over the entire pancake. She looks up a second later to Jacobi’s untouched plate and pokes him in the side. “Eat.”

“I will,” he says, and sits down next to her. “Later.”

Alana huffs at him and holds out a forkfull of her pancake. “One bite.”

He takes it, chews, wonders about the empty bed. It’s a pretty okay pancake, halfway between mediocre and incredible.

“Where’s Kepler?” he asks through the mouthful.

“Been hogging the shower all morning.” she rolls her eyes. “Why do you ask?”

Jacobi shrugs, and picks up his plate of chocolate chip pancakes and starts eating to have something to do. “Just wondering,” he mumbles, mouth full again. He thinks he can hear distant coughing, but perhaps it’s just his imagination. _So what if it is Kepler. He smokes, right? Is that...normal smoking coughing?_ That would be not good but it wouldn’t be too bad either.

The sour taste in his mouth that comes back every time he swallows says otherwise.

“Lana,” he says suddenly, having decided something, “Did you-did you really mean what you said at lunch yesterday?”

“What did I say at lunch yesterday?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“You said-” he stops. He can feel his face heating up. He lowers his voice to just above a whisper. “Lana, what did you mean about Kepler?”

“Oh.”

She holds up her hand in a “hang on” gesture and finishes chewing. Then she looks him dead in the eye. “Danny, I think it’s going to be something that you have to figure out for yourself. The colonel is...well, he’s the colonel. You know what he’s like.”

“Yeah, I do.” Jacobi bites his lip. Stabs his fork into the pancake and leaves it there. It looks a bit like the columns of steel that were part of his support beams. He wonders vaguely if it will hold the burden for him. Surround himself with forks and spoons and knives taller than he is, balance his half finished building there, duck under and creep away, no longer any obligation to care about Warren Kepler.

Alana’s watching him closely. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

“...”

“Okay, fine, so I’m not fine.”

“...go on?”

“I’m just…” he takes the fork again, stuffs more pancake in his mouth. “I’m scared, Lana.”

The words feel foreign on his tongue, even muffled and quiet.

“Come again? Without the pancake in your mouth?”

He chews, swallows, doesn’t meet her eyes.

“I’m scared.”

Lana hugs him, lets out a sigh that is almost a laugh, strokes his hair like he’s the younger one. “Oh, Daniel. Everyone’s scared.”

“Yeah, but-but not of him. I’m scared both ways and he’s actually scary.”

“Okay, uh...once more in English.”

Jacobi takes a breath. “I’m scared to say anything, I’m scared to not say anything...I mean, what if it goes horribly wrong? I could get hunted down and killed by GF.” He’s only half kidding, but Alana laughs anyway.

“What are you getting hunted down and killed for, Mr. Jacobi?”

They both jump. Kepler’s standing at the door to the bathroom...shirtless. _At least he’s wearing a towel,_ Jacobi thinks, and then immediately averts his eyes.

“Planting smoke bombs in your office, sir,” says Maxwell promptly. “We were arguing about the severity of a crime versus the severity of punishment.”

Kepler raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. Jacobi puts one hand on Maxwell’s shoulder briefly in thanks. She nuzzles his shoulder, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it quick. Then she springs off the bed. “Showers, finally!” She makes a beeline for the bathroom-and then Jacobi is completely alone save for his half naked commanding officer. Oh...joy.

“Sleep well, Mr. Jacobi?” he asks blithely. Jacobi shifts on the bed, and the springs creak, uncomfortably loud. “Fine,” he says, too firmly. He had not slept “fine”.

“Excellent,” says Kepler, turning to gather his clothes, which have been neatly folded and placed on his nightstand. Jacobi self consciously glances at his clothes, which are strewn in a pile on the floor beside his and Maxwell’s bed. Kepler pretends not to notice.

“I’ll...leave, sir…” Jacobi says, and stands to go, but Kepler says, “Oh, no need, Mr. Jacobi,” and so Jacobi sits back onto the bed and closes his eyes. He hears the towel drop and the room’s quiet enough that the only sounds he’s aware of are the shower in the background and his own breathing.

“Enjoying the trip so far, Jacobi?”

“Of course, sir.”

Also a lie. Jacobi can almost hear Kepler raise his eyebrows.

But whatever condescending thing he’s going to say is interrupted by a bout of coughing. It’s not exactly pleasant but it gives Jacobi something new to focus on.

“...Sir? Are you okay?”

“Perfectly-” More coughing. Jacobi waits. “Perfectly fine, Mr. Jacobi.”

“Are you sure?” Jacobi asks, stumbling the words out almost before Kepler’s finished with his sentence.

“Quite sure,” says Kepler hoarsely, and Jacobi knows the conversation is over- or, at least, the conversation on that subject is. They sit in uncomfortable silence until Kepler says, “You can open your eyes now.”

Jacobi does.

Kepler’s not in uniform. He’s wearing...cargo pants...and a shirt with a print of Freddie Mercury on the front. Jacobi blinks. “Sir...did you…”

“Hm?” Kepler tracks Jacobi’s line of sight to his shirt. “Oh, this? Ran out of uniforms.”

“It’s been...one day.”

“Mm. Forgot to wash them.” He smiles, and Jacobi knows that he didn’t exactly “forget”- he just didn’t want to wear his uniform. When their eyes meet he realizes that Kepler knows that he knows, and there’s something sudden and jolting about catching Kepler in a lie, even a small one, that surprises Jacobi enough that he doesn’t break eye contact.

And so they keep looking at each other.

Until Maxwell stomps out of the bathroom in full uniform, beaming and toweling off her hair in a manner that is, in Jacobi’s opinion, far too rough. She’s going to damage her hair.

However, Maxwell doesn’t seem to care. “You two losers ready to hit the road?”

Jacobi raises an eyebrow. “Colonel, did you drug her?”

“What, I’m not allowed to be happy?” Maxwell asks.

“Worse,” says Kepler, over her. “I told her she could drive.” Jacobi groans. Maxwell pokes him in the chest. “Hey, someone who can’t even beat me at MarioKart isn’t allowed to complain.”

“Eh, fair,” Jacobi grumbles, which makes Kepler smirk.

They check out of the hotel ten minutes later (Maxwell insists on finishing the pancakes first) and Maxwell gets her turn at the wheel. To be fair, she’s probably the best driver out of the three of them. She doesn’t get distracted by an enormous ego (Kepler) or threaten to throw smoke bombs at people who forget to put their turn signals on (Jacobi).

However, she does sing. A lot. Loudly.

Jacobi and Kepler play rock paper scissors in the backseat until Jacobi gets carsick and Kepler gets bored. The score is 421 to 113 when Kepler starts telling one of his stories and Maxwell finally announces, after her ear splitting rendition of Breakaway, that she’ll allow Jacobi to drive.

So Maxwell and Kepler continue the rock paper scissors battle and Jacobi gets to be in control. He turns down the radio, takes a deep breath, and does his best to block out Maxwell and Kepler’s occasional banter from the backseat.

He actually loves driving, if he doesn’t have to deal with other people. Driving like this, with the highway stretching out in front of him and no other cars around for miles, is something he could do for hours without getting bored.

Luckily they have quite a ways to go.

Jacobi’s been on countless missions with Kepler before, and near countless missions with Maxwell. This one feels different though. Maxwell’s scars have never come up before because they’ve never had cause to be in such close quarters for so long before.

He suspects that Kepler has perhaps seen before; her sleeve slipping, a stretch that lifts her shirt up a bit too far. But people in their line of work have many scars- Jacobi can’t even count his on both hands- and Maxwell had always been so casual about hiding them that it might’ve been a non issue.

Maxwell doesn’t like threats, though. Any threat to Maxwell is taken apart piece by piece the minute it becomes apparent to her.

Lack of privacy is a threat. Days on the road...threat.

He glances back at her, giggling and teasing Kepler incessantly. You can’t see her wrists, not when she’s in full uniform. She’s safe.

He thinks for a moment how that conversation might go.

“Doctor Maxwell, what’s on your wrist?”

Silence. He can’t imagine her response.

If she brought it up?

…

…

“Colonel, I’d like you to know something.”

More silence. Kepler’s thinking.

“Oh?”

“Yes.”

Jacobi can’t think what would happen beyond that, either. Why would she even tell him to begin with?

His thoughts are interrupted by a cough from the backseat.

“Kepler? You okay?”

“Fine, Mr. Jacobi.”

There’s silence from the backseat, and then Kepler says with restrained dignity, “Actually, Mr. Jacobi, could you pull over for a second?”

“Sure, sir, but why-”

“Just do it,” says Kepler, through what sounds like gritted teeth.

“Okay.”

He pulls over to the shoulder and Kepler bolts over Maxwell, out of the car and to the side of the road. Jacobi hesitantly puts the car into park and turns off the engine, meets Maxwell’s eyes in the rearview mirror. She looks just as confused as he does. “Is he-” she starts to ask, and then Jacobi hears retching and gets out of the car before she can finish.

“Kepler, Jesus, are you okay?”

He’s panting heavily, hands on his knees, still vomiting. It’s the most violently carsick that Jacobi’s ever seen anyone get. “I’m...hah...fine...Mr. Jacobi... _fine_ …”

He retches again, and Jacobi has the weird urge to run over and rub his back. That’s what you’re supposed to do, right? When someone’s sick like this?

Maxwell’s gotten out of the car and is watching the whole scene with concern.

“I didn’t know you got carsick, sir,” she says softly.

“I...don’t, Doctor,” he says, attempting to straighten up and immediately doubling over again, teeth clenched. “Shit.”

“Colonel-” Jacobi actually starts to walk towards him now, but Kepler holds out a hand to stop him. “I’m...okay, Jacobi. Must’ve been something I ate.”

“Okay, sir…” Jacobi says reluctantly.

“Would you hand me my water bottle?”

“Sure.”

Jacobi finds it in the car, and Maxwell walks over to talk to Kepler. He can’t hear what they’re saying, but he watches them through the window until he’s been in the car too long to be reasonably searching for the water bottle. He walks up and Maxwell steps away. “Sir?”

Kepler takes it from him, swishes a mouthful of water around, spits it out, makes a face.

“Alright kids, back in the car, I’m _fine_.”


	5. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kepler asks one too many questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for past self harm, discussion of self harm, and an abusive relationship.

The next stretch of the trip passed in uneasy silence. Jacobi had slipped back into the driver’s seat, even though by all rights it should’ve been Kepler’s turn. Jacobi tries to pay attention to the road but he can’t resist flicking his eyes up to the rearview mirror to watch Maxwell and Kepler. They’re both unnaturally quiet. So quiet, in fact, that Jacobi reaches over to turn the radio on, which he almost never does when driving.

Immediately the air is assaulted with the unmistakable croon of Rascal Flats. Jacobi yelps and the car wavers into the left lane for a second and Maxwell screeches. A second later Jacobi recovers himself and turns the radio off. He huffs into the too humid air of the car. Maxwell glares at him through the mirror. “What was that for?”

“I was just trying to break the tension!”

“Well, you nearly broke the sound barrier,” Maxwell grumbles.

“You know that’s not how the sound barrier works,” says Jacobi, ignoring for a moment the awkwardness he’s lent to the situation by even acknowledging that there’s tension.

The car goes even quieter for a moment, and then Kepler chirps “Who wants to play a game?”

Jacobi and Maxwell groan in unison.

“What?” Kepler asks cheerily. “I did hear someone say that they needed the ice broken? Hmm?”

“Now look what you’ve done,” says Maxwell, dropping her head into her hands.

“You weren’t talking either!”

“Yeah, because I was almost asleep!”

“Ahem.”

Jacobi clamps his jaw shut.

“I believe,” says Kepler, “that we were about to play a game.”

More silence.

It’s weird, Jacobi thinks, all their different silences. The silence of Kepler exerting his power over them feels like stretching too far for something just out of reach, like a fist nearly closed around a rock at the bottom of a river. He can feel the muscles ache but he’s tentatively safe. It’s an oddly comfortable silence; he knows this silence.

The silence of the three of them alone together not talking makes his skin crawl.

“Sir,” starts Jacobi, “what…what kind of…game…”

“Glad you asked, Mr. Jacobi!” Kepler says, all cheeriness returning. “We’re going to play-”

“Questions only?” Maxwell asks in a pancake flat tone.

“Are we?” says Kepler, and smirks. Jacobi fights to keep his attention on the road and not in the rearview mirror.

“Sir, do we really have to do this?”

“Would you rather listen to ‘What Hurts the Most’ for the hundredth time?”

“Honestly?” Maxwell mutters.

“Doctor Maxwell, may I request that you at least attempt to sound cheerful?”

“You may, sir, but will it work?” she asks through gritted teeth.

“Maxwell could you possibly be making this worse?” Jacobi sighs from the front seat.

“Now, now, Jacobi, must I ask the same of you?”

“I don’t know, must you?

Questions like that are almost cheating, but Jacobi doesn’t care. He’s just glad that Kepler’s back on top of his game. Or well enough to pretend he is.

Kepler not being in control scares him worse than he’s likely to admit to anyone, even Alana.

“Mr. Jacobi, what have we said about rephrasing the last question?”

Jacobi sighs to disguise his relief at the sternness in Kepler’s tone. “Not to do it?”

“How about none of us speak in questions at all?” Maxwell says, digging an elbow into Kepler’s side. Kepler doesn’t curse at her or say any other non question, which makes Maxwell slump defeatedly against the side of the car. The only way to beat Kepler is to play dirty, and even then it’s near impossible.

“You know what’s interesting, Doctor, is that you have stated repeatedly that you don’t wish to continue the game and yet, you’re still playing?”

Maxwell growls. Whether her competitiveness or her pettiness will win out is always an interesting battle to watch.

“Care to explain?” Kepler asks, very slowly.

For a moment no one says anything, and then Maxwell says, “No, sir, I would not care to explain.”

“Why don’t you ever give up on this game, sir?” Jacobi asks wearily.

“Why would I give up if I always win?”

“That’s not what I- ah, shit.”

Kepler hums in satisfaction. “Care for a rematch? Maxwell? Jacobi?”

“Sir, why are you still speaking in questions?” mutters Maxwell.

“Is that a rematch I hear? Jacobi?” Kepler asks brightly.

“No…no thank you, sir.”

“Okay, Maxwell: why are you covering your scars?”

Jacobi nearly screeches to a halt in the middle of the highway. Luckily he has the presence of mind to wrench them onto the shoulder, narrowly missing a car that zipped by in the far right lane.

“You WHAT?” he asks.

“Mr. Jacobi-”

“No, don’t Mr. Jacobi me, I-”

“Jacobi!” says Maxwell. He whips around to look at them both. “Just…leave it. It’s fine.”

“It is most definitely not fine, by any definition of the word!” Jacobi growls.

Kepler has a steely look in his eye. Not malicious or embarrassed or angry, just…solid. Jacobi can’t see anything in him.

“Mr. Jacobi,” he says softly. “Would you step out of the car for a moment?”

“Absolutely not!” says Jacobi, louder than he meant to. Maxwell rubs a hand over her forehead. She’s biting her lip- one of the biggest tells that she’s concentrating hard. Jacobi feels the support beams slide from Kepler’s shoulders to Maxwell’s, and then back again. He presses both hands to the side of his head and resists screaming. No, no no no NO, no one does that to her, no one-

Jacobi takes a breath and meets Kepler’s eyes.

“I’d prefer we got of the highway before talking…sir.”

“Of course,” sasy Kepler in the same soft, talking-to-a-scared-animal kind of tone.

This next silence is the loudest that Jacobi has ever experienced. He can barely drive, he’s seeing so much red, and his hands shake as he flicks his turn signal on to pull off the highway. After a few indecisive passes around gas stations and fast food restaurants Jacobi finally finds a small park, tucked in between the fork of two roads. It hardly feels like a park with all the trash littering the mulch, the tired saplings haphazardly scattered around a rusted playground. It looks how Jacobi feels.

He parks the car and gets out, slamming the door shut behind him. Maxwell gets out too, and Kepler- on opposite sides. For a moment all three just stand next to the car not looking at each other, and when Jacobi breathes the air tastes electric and dangerous.

Then Kepler sits on the hood of the car and pats either side of the warm metal, then looks up expectantly. Jacobi sits down on his left, wary and tingling with unwanted excitement at being this close, as if they hadn’t been like this a thousand times before. Maxwell scoots onto the hood on Kepler’s right, and the silence continues.

Then Kepler speaks. “Maxwell, you know I would never do anything to hurt you.”

It’s a bold faced lie. Kepler would do anything to gain the upper hand. Jacobi knows this, deep down in his gut. All Kepler wants is a comfortable position of power. If it’s convenient for him to keep Maxwell on his side rather than his fearful and hurt subordinate, he won’t hurt her. If not…

“Why would you tell her that,” he says quietly, staring at the beginnings of a hole in the knee of his pants.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Jacobi?” Kepler asks, equally quiet. Jacobi hates it. The tight menace of Kepler’s voice is tracing a nervous shiver down his spine. He picks at the threads covering his knee.

“I said. I said why would you tell her that, when it’s obviously not true?”

There’s a moment stiff with tension, and then Maxwell blurts out, “Jacobi, drop it. I don’t care. I- it doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters! I know it matters to you, and it matters to me! I-”

“MR. JACOBI. Are you accusing me of being a liar?”

Jacobi looks up quickly, half anticipating a punch, and directly into Kepler’s burning blue eyes. “Yes. Yes I am.”

For a second Jacobi really does think Kepler might punch him, and then a little of the fire fades from his eyes.

“Kepler-” starts Maxwell, but Kepler holds out a hand. “No, Maxwell. I want to see this through to the end.”

“But I-”

“Maxwell.” There’s a singsong lilt to his voice, and it immediately silences her.

“Jacobi. Why do you think I’m lying to Maxwell?” His tone is too gentle, too concerned. Jacobi wants to scream.

“Because you always do this! You always- you- you make people think you care just the slightest and then you make them think you hate them and you keep building them up just so you can knock them down and I’m not gonna let you do that to Maxwell! Not her! She’s- there’s-”

“Daniel. Is this about Alana, or yourself?”

The blood freezes in his veins. When the first names come out, it’s serious. He glances at Maxwell across Kepler, puzzled. Maxwell looks vaguely mad or frustrated or- something to do with concentration.

“What- what do you mean, sir?”

“I mean,” says Kepler, “are you talking about Alana’s scars, or your own?”

“Of course I’m not talking about- I- I don’t have scars?” Not scars from that, anyway.

“Yes you do, Daniel,” says Maxwell, and Jacobi is equally surprised and horrified to hear the hitch in her voice. “There’s more than one kind of scar.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was/is being written for @wolf359bigbang2017 ! I am super excited about it, as it’s the longest fic I’ve ever attempted and I am so not ready to let go of team Jacobi just yet. Thank you to my artist @drakanekurashiki on tumblr!!!


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